


In the dark

by PlantHands



Category: Detroit: Become Human (Video Game)
Genre: Capital F Feelings, Connor also does knitting and ya'll can fight me on this too, Connor moves in with Hank and ya'll can fight me on this, Getting deep with Hank and Connor, Hank just wanted a glass of water, M/M, Other, Post-Pacifist Best Ending (Detroit: Become Human), no beta we die like men
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2018-09-12
Updated: 2018-09-12
Packaged: 2019-07-11 10:42:30
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,254
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/15970679
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/PlantHands/pseuds/PlantHands
Summary: “What the fuck are you doing?”“Knitting, Lieutenant.” Connor lifts the needles, showing off his half-length of maroon, knit two purl two, tassels on the end, scarf. It looks like something Hank’s grandmother would have knitted for him back in the day. It’s a monstrosity.





	In the dark

**Author's Note:**

> Hi kids! I wanted to do a thing. So without further ado, I present: the thing.

**Nov 29 th 2038**

Hank has to do a double take when he walks by the lounge and sees a body silhouetted by one dingy lamp and the soft blue ring of light flickering at his temple, sitting cross-legged on the floor because Sumo has claimed the couch. It’s been about a week since Connor officially moved in, but Hank still isn’t used to the extra body in his apartment. “Jesus, Connor, it’s three. _In the morning_.”

“I am aware Lieutenant.” Connor’s LED edges on yellow, just for a second, as he takes in Hank standing partway in the kitchen gingerly nursing a glass of water.

“What the _fuck_ are you _doing_?”

“Knitting, Lieutenant.” Connor lifts the needles, showing off his half-length of maroon, knit two purl two, _tassels on the end,_ scarf. It looks like something Hank’s grandmother would have knitted for him back in the day. It’s a monstrosity.

And Hank has _so many_ questions. Namely, where the hell did the knitting supplies come from. Hank sure as hell didn’t have that shit just laying around.

“I didn’t mean—” He pinches the bridge of his nose, sighs into his hand. “I know _what_ you’re doing. But seriously, what the fuck Connor? Why aren’t you sleeping, or in standby— or whatever the fuck you do?”

“Androids don’t need sleep.” Connors fingers move deftly across the needles. “What are you doing up, Lieutenant? As far as I know humans require sleep to function.”

“You’ve become a real wise-ass since deviancy, you know?” Hank smiles a little because he doesn’t really mean it. Or, more concerning; he does mean it, but he likes it anyway.

“I know.” Connor doesn’t smile a little.

 _And shit,  
_ Hank never really was good at _other people_.

“Look, are you…” He trails off, grasping for the words. Connor, sitting up all alone, knitting of all things, in the middle of the night. It doesn’t sit right with him. People— and Connor is a person— don’t tend to, _whatever this is,_ (existential knitting crisis?) if everything is— Hank waves an arm helplessly. “Okay?”

“All my systems are functioning at optimum performance.” Is what he says, but his LED is _yellow, yellow, yellow._

“I mean _okay_ , okay.” Hank clarifies, no mistaking what he means.

Connor says _Oh_ like the thought of Hank caring enough to ask didn’t really occur to him. Long pause. Then, “Would you like to join me Lieutenant, since you’re up?”

“Me, knitting?” Hank scoffs.

“You don’t need to knit, just,” Connor’s shrug is kind-of defeatist.

Some kind of offering, a peace offering, Hank thinks. Doesn’t read too deeply into it. Just wordlessly sets his glass down on the coffee table and fetches the TV remote, folding himself into a sitting position on the ground beside Connor and grouching about being too old to do so. He turns the TV on quietly, a distant murmur in the background, careful not to disturb Sumo sleeping behind them, and flicks aimlessly through the channels.

Connor continues to knit.

Hank tries to ignore the warmth of the body beside him as their shoulders brush, when he shifts around, fidgeting, in part because his weary muscles can’t relax on the cold hard floor, but also because he can’t remember the last time he was this close to another person and it’s vaguely uncomfortable. He jostles Connor, who breathes out sagely and rethreads the wool when a stitch is dropped due to the movement. From this angle, he can’t really see Connor’s LED, but he can see the yellow-blue light penetrating the darkness of the room. Sumo’s snores are loud in the silence.

“Why are you knitting?” Hank asks after a while, given up on pretending to pay attention to the TV.

“I found several articles online that cited knitting as a good task to do in order to decrease stress levels.” Connor says. Hank watches his slender hands work the needles.

“You guys need that— to do that? You don’t have like a _calm down_ protocol, or an off switch or…” He trails off.

Connor stops knitting, opens his mouth, but there are no words to fill it. He shuts his mouth again, brows draw together. Hank feels a pang of guilt because he _definitely put his foot in his mouth._

“Fuck. Look. That was insensitive of me to ask, you, uh, don’t have to answer if you don’t want to.” Hank hastily tries to amend. He’s embarrassed, ducks away from Connor so he doesn’t see it. But he can feel Connor watch the side of his dipped head and all he can think is _well, fuck—_

“No!” Connor blurts abruptly. It shocks Hank. And Sumo stirs behind them on the couch, stretching his legs and letting out a long sound before settling back into sleep. When Connor talks again, he talks quieter. “ _No_ I—”

Fiddles with the knitting needles.

“It’s hard to switch off sometimes,” Connor tries elaborate. He lifts a hand to motion to his red-haloed head. “In here.”

Hank makes a sound like _oh_ because he _gets it._

“When I was— before I deviated—” Connor talks like it’s difficult, like it requires all of his concentration and effort. Hesitating, his LED flickering nervously between red and yellow. Somehow it sounds more _human._ Hank wonders if he’s talking around all the answers his programs supply to him. “I always knew— there was always a mission, a purpose. And now it’s unclear— Amanda was always there— I don’t used to notice but now, when it’s quiet and there’s nothing, no mission, I’m alone in my head. And I just,”

He touches Connor’s shoulder because it feels like the right thing to do.

Hank isn’t good at heart-to-hearts, but for Connor, he’ll try.

“I get it. _I think._ Well, I’m not a funky little tin man with the voice of crazy _dead_ bitch in my head—”

Connor’s lips quirk. He’s a quiet yellow.

“But, the whole feeling lost thing, yeah. After Cole,” Hank chokes on the words. Died. “ _Was gone._ I didn’t really have a direction in life.” _Not necessarily true._ He did have a direction, it was six feet under. Behind his eyes prickles threateningly. Hank cuts it, himself, off before it turns into a pity party. This is about Connor.  
“My point is, I was in the shit, and then you showed up with your goofy face and weird voice and pulled me out. So if you need someone to pull you out of the shit…” For Connor he’d fucking move heaven and earth.

“Thank you, Lieutenant.” Connor drops the needles, grabs his hand, and squeezes. Hank thinks he might be sick. The good kind, the butterflies in your stomach kind.

“Uh, no worries.” He isn’t religious, but he prays to whatever deity listening that Connor doesn’t decide to scan him now, of all times. When his heart is beating a million miles an hour and his face is flaming.

Hank squeezes Connor’s hand in return and relaxes when he sees Connor’s LED return to a slow, steady, vortex of blue.

“So why a scarf?” He changes the subject and slips his fingers free of the Android’s. _That’s enough feelings for one night._ “I thought Androids couldn’t feel the cold.”

“It’s not for me.” Connor looks pointedly between Hank and the scarf.

“ _No_.”

**Nov 30 th 2038**

“What the _fuck_ is around your neck, a dead cat?”

“This is my new fucking scarf.” Hank gives Gavin Reed the one finger salute as he strolls past the detective’s desk. “Eat shit Reed.”


End file.
